“No—I was awful foolish, of course, but I saw you when you went out this evening, and you looked so savage, and you didn’t look very well.”
“But now it’s all right.”
“Then good night.”
“Oh no—listen—please do! I went over to the place Miss Nash is living at, because I was pretty sure that I ain’t hipped on her—sort of hypnotized by her—any more. And I found I ain’t! I ain’t! I don’t know what to say, I want to—I want you to know that from going to try and see if I can’t get you to care for me.” He was dreadfully earnest, and rather quiet, with the dignity of the man who has found himself. “I’m scared,” he went on, “about saying this, because maybe you’ll think I’ve got an idea I’m kind of a little tin god, and all I’ve got to do is to say which girl I’ll want and she’ll come a-running, but it isn’t that; it isn’t. It’s just that I want you to know I’m going to give all of me to you now if I can get you to want me. And I am glad I knew Istra—she learnt me a lot about books and all, so I have more to me, or maybe will have, for you. It’s —Nelly—promise you’ll be—my friend—promise—If you knew how I rushed back here tonight to see you!”
“Billy—”
She held out her hand, and he grasped it as though it were the sacred symbol of his dreams.
“To-morrow,” she smiled, with a hint of tears, “I’ll be a reg’lar lady, I guess, and make you explain and explain like everything, but now I’m just glad. Yes,” defiantly, “I will admit it if I want to! I am glad!”
Her door closed.
CHAPTER XIX
TO A HAPPY SHORE
Upon an evening of November, 1911, it chanced that of Mrs. Arty’s flock only Nelly and Mr. Wrenn were at home. They had finished two hot games of pinochle, and sat with their feet on a small amiable oil-stove. Mr. Wrenn laid her hand against his cheek with infinite content. He was outlining the situation at the office.